


Those we lost in Paris

by Be3



Category: Forever (TV), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, aftermath of barricades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be3/pseuds/Be3
Summary: It is 1832, and Dr. Morgan recently came to France.





	

A/N: many thanks to Spacecadet72 for beta-ing this fic!

 

* * *

 

 The night had not quieted down, but it was well after dark, the lamplights were mostly broken, and Dr. Morgan was hungry.

 He made his move. There was an address he could try – it was a risk, but the host was the most level-headed and peaceful of his acquaintances in this boiling city. Also, Henry had once treated him for a sore throat and declined payment (taking from the poor didn't sit well with him), which might make the man more willing to listen.

 As he walked to his patient's home he felt weary, frightened, and in significant turmoil over the latest events, but the sight of familiar steps called forth in him a small amount of curiosity and hope.

Since his first visit two years ago, he'd felt a connection with the old man. A churchwarden and an odd fish, he could claim few laurels – and likely wouldn't, any, – but was distinguished by a clear mind, still sharp at the turn of his eighth decade of life, and the doctor was anticipating a blessed evening of natural philosophy. Perhaps even a juicy horticulturist scandal. Not his favorite topic, but much better than the blood and cholera that Henry himself could offer.

 Blood and cholera in Paris! Paris, that amazed him at every turn! Paris, that he'd longed to see since before – he came of age, but the dragging wars, the revolution, and being heir to his father's thrice cursed business all prevented him from fulfilling his wish. Always, there was this one reason not to come; that one path leading to some other place but the mythical land of France.

 Until life changed, and he had to sail away from the very real land of England.

 (Until he became a penniless, mad exile as concerned England.)

 And now, although that hell was behind him, he was broke, alone, and smelling of gunpowder after a failed uprising. Rather conspicuous, even for himself.

 (But he'd had to help; there was no question in it. Who better to treat the wounded lying in the no man's land than a physician who couldn't die? Who better to persuade a rebel leader that since they were abandoned by the city, and probably wouldn't last for much longer, they could afford to show mercy to the fallen soldiers?)

 Henry jogged to the familiar doorstep and knocked. There was no answer.

 'M. Mabeuf?' He knocked more loudly the second time, nauseous with fear. _Dear Sir, please invite me to tea, before I am taken away for questioning, your eternal debtor, Henry Morgan._ 'M. Mabeuf!'

 'Oh, Doctor, is that you?'

 Henry swore under his breath. He had gambled that a part-time maid would be a heavier sleeper than an old botanist, but there she was, peering at him fearfully from behind the massive door.

 'My dear, I was in the neighborhood and came by to enquire after your master's health...'

 'Come in,' she said quietly, ushering him inside. 'Come in and don't tell me anything. Please don't tell me anything.'

 Henry doubted she would settle for no explanation (or fail to provide one, a born Parisienne), but right at the moment his only other choice was to wait for a patrol and be promptly executed somewhere for things he'd never done, so he did as he was bid.

 'Margaux,' he began when she bolted the door. 'There was a misunderstanding of sorts, and I confess I have an ulterior reason to trouble you at this time of night...'

 'Master is gone,' whispered Margaux, turning to look at him with wide eyes. 'He went to the barricade. They shot him. The soldiers.'

Henry blinked, unable to believe his ears. 'M. Mabeuf?'

 The girl's mouth worked, but she couldn't speak. She nodded.

 'But he's never...' Henry waved an awkward hand in the air. There were a few ways to finish that sentence. _Been interested in politics_ , for example. _Showed an inclination to violence_.

 'They said – some people said, – that he did not fight. He just refused to, to leave, and they _fired_ at him!'

 Henry sat down.

 He'd pleaded for their lives, and they'd shot M. Mabeuf.

 He thought, vaguely, that he ought to support the child, dredge up some deep words that would heal; but the memory of cold water swallowing him stole his breath.

 And she let out a squeak and a sob, and threw herself down at her knees beside him, and wept, and her candle was knocked out as he gathered her in his arms.

 ...Some hours later, somebody shouted outside and banged at the door to be let in in the name of the king, but they held each other and didn't answer, and the men went away.

 ...Dawn was breaking.

Dr. Henry Morgan's legs had long ago fallen asleep on him. And there was an attractive young female, also asleep on him. Fully clothed (probably). The wet patch on his chest was drool or tears, maybe both.

 The floorboards were hard as ever, and he wanted to take a full breath. Not that she weighed much, but Henry could admit to himself that he liked unrestricted respiration. It was a quirk of his.

 Surely a gentleman could extricate himself from such a position without giving undue offence? He tried rolling sideways, but Margaux grunted and buried her face into his shoulder. Henry sighed – it was time. He pressed a cheek to the back of her head. 'Morning, mademoiselle.'

 'Henri...'

 'We should get up.'

 She hummed, but finally moved away. And she did not object to him staying a bit longer, to wash the stains from his coat and the stink from his hair; and looked away when he helped himself to a shirt and cravat from the half-empty closet, and broke open a bottle of red without him saying anything.

 The day passed without trouble, but then again, they were hiding.

 The night, they went to hide in a more comfortable position.

 'Henri,' said Margaux carefully. 'Would you – how long can you stay?'

 What she really meant was 'what did you do?', and he really had no idea how much to tell.

'I am not sure,' he said, going for the practical truth. 'I do not know if I have made any enemies, but if I have, than they could make wild exaggerations that might lead to a hasty and irreparable sentence being passed.'

 Margaux nodded.

 'As in...you having been _there_?'

 'Yes. And wilder still.' He held his breath, letting her decide. He could get out of Paris by morning, possibly out of France by the end of the week, but – he didn't want to leave. Not yet.

 There was every reason to, he just simply didn't want to go away.

 There were some men still waiting for the judgement, and some whose luck allowed them to escape the carnage with minor damage – with damning damage, and a threat of infection.

 He hadn't known Margaux beyond exchanging social pleasantries and a few sweet words on those infrequent occasions when her old master needed his help; Father Mabeuf, lacking funds, had him over for dinner instead.

 She rolled to him, and her eyes gleamed in the dark. She put her arm around his shoulders.

 'Would they invent that you were clamouring for, for illegal resolutions?'

 'I believe so.'

 He still didn't know her, and she was speaking so quietly, so insistently. A Frenchwoman, in bed with a stranger, and talking not of love.

 He really shouldn't have come.

 'That you – aided, in whatever capacity – the cursed ringleleaders?'

'In whatever capacity,' he breathed out.

 'That you took up arms –'

 ' _No_. Of course,' he amended at once, frightened by his direct answer, 'I cannot predict what foolishness people can conceive.'

 Margaux lowered her head down by his.

 'I wish I did.'

 He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand.

 'Conceive?'

 'Henri!'

 He smiled. France never did make any sense, did it? Except when she did.

 'I'm glad you didn't.'

 'Say it again,' she whispered hotly, leaning over him. 'Say it again.'

 ...But somebody had to claim Father Mabeuf's body, and between them, they had just enough money to bury him.

 'Master used to say that studying made his life longer,' muttered Margaux, frowning at a worm crawling through the lumpy earth. ''All those moments of recognition add up', or some such. I don't remember.'

 'He was a true scientist,' agreed Henry sadly.

 'He was kind.'

 'That's...part of being a true scientist.'

 She snorted, biting her lips to keep herself from crying.

 'Do you think he suffered much?'

 Henry stalled. 'He died quickly.'

 She looked at him sharply, but let it go.

 'Henri, what am I to do?'

 'Live.'

 


End file.
